Don't Harp On It

Go away, I'm practicing the harp.

.... Or go ahead and harp on it all you want.  Harping, which is just a nice goyisha substitute for kvetching, happens to be one of the SJG's favorite hobbies, but then you already knew that.  I think my fondness for harping dates back to my first encounter with an actual harp. It was the fiercest harp.  It just sat there in my friend's living room, like a big spooky tchochke.  The harp looked something like this:

That's a bitchin' harp you got there, mate.

Of course, my friend's living room wasn't this fancy-schmancy. Why must you harp on the details?  Imagine a harp in a living room, circa 1966ish, in a humble town called Westwood.  Imagine the SJG looking at this harp in horror  -- not because I was musically-challenged.  Math and geography -- big challenge.  Music -- my first true love.  So yes, I took piano lessons, just because... because... oh, who remembers.  My brothers did it, so I did it, too.  For five years I tinkled the ivories.  Ask me how much piano I remember now.  "Heart and Soul." That's it.  But back to the harp, which is supposedly the point of today's discussion.  Unless I veer off into something else, like my fondness for sipping coffee on the veranda.  If only I had a veranda.  Now then, pay attention, this blog will be over soon.  I think.

My friend Ellen, a smarty from the get-go, took harp lessons.  The harp was grand and imposing and for reasons only a therapist might understand, scared the crap out the SJG. To me, Ellen's harp sat there like a towering threat.  It looked heavy and delicate at the same time. The harp represented all things foreign and mysterious.  The harp seemed to say, Oh, Pluck Off, You.  I'm just going to put it out there.  I didn't like Ellen's harp.  Pithy thought:  We often don't like what we don't understand.  So, fine.  I didn't understand what an eight year old was doing playing the harp.  This couldn't have been her idea.  This idea had to come from her very strict, harping mother.  As in, "Ellen, you will play the harp, not the piano, like your silly friend Carol.  You will be a harpist.  You will travel the world, thanks to that harp.  You will thank me, profusely, every time you step foot on stage.  Thank you, Mumsy, for forcing me to playing the harp.  I'm so grateful to you.  I'm a harpist because of your belief in me."

Ellen and her stupid harp.  One time, Ellen was at my house, and we were having a fun time, doing what eight year olds did back in the '60s.  We weren't texting or watching Video On Demand.  We were playing with Barbie Dolls or playing Crazy 8's or checkers.  Good clean, non-harp-related fun.  And then my mom, who never forced me to play the harp, but did force me to wear some questionable outfits from time to time, came in and said, "Ellen, your mother just called.  She said you have to come home and practice the harp."

Worst play date ever.

Ellen and her stupid harp.  Did she grow up to be a harpist?  No, she didn't.  How long did she play that stupid harp?  A while.  Not that long.  One day, the harp was gone.  I can't tell you when, exactly.  Much like the harp, the string holding our friendship together eventually frayed.  But every time I see a harp, I think of Ellen.  Ellen and her stupid harp.  A cautionary tale.